Elegy in the Domes
by Little Sharingan
Summary: Answers often bring more questions, and Roger Smith has found a mystery wrapped in another. Will the Negotiator unravel the truth of the Event in the disappearance of a single child?


**Elegy in D Minor**

**Chapter 1 – The Beginning**

_"Lasciate ogne speranzo, voi ch'intrate."_

_(Abandon all hope, ye that enter here.)_

                        Canto I, The Inferno, Dante Alighieri

"My father used to teach me many things when I was child, Mr. Smith, none of which I can recall with any clarity.  That was all before the Event, you know," the old woman began in a surprisingly clear voice as she sat back in her rocking chair, porcelain teacup and saucer carefully balanced in wizened hands.  "The world was much bigger then, filled with wonders and horrors, such that we can scarcely imagine.  You see, young man, the domes are more than steel and glass: They are a cage of both our bodies and _minds_.  We walk through this amnesiac life, clinging to an unwavering ignorance in the hope that realization will never touch us – realization that we are shadows of what we used to be."

The negotiator watched Mrs. Pratt's trembling fingers set the empty cup down.  She looked far older than her age, and it was clear that her relentless pursuit of memories had not been an easy one.  The crows' feet that rimmed her glassy blue eyes were far too deep for her sixty-five years.  Silver hair was tucked neatly beneath a gaudy flowered scarf – brilliant pinks matched by comical stripes of rouge painted on each pale, wrinkled cheek; light blues paralleled in clumsily applied eye shadow.  "It's a bit cold in here, isn't it?" she muttered absently, not really expecting an answer.  She waved the maid to bring her one of the many orange afghans the old woman had apparently knitted herself.  "Yes, that's good.  Thank you, Jane."

Roger stood leaning against the mantle, hair impossibly neat, tailored suit and gloves further testament to his dedication to perfection.  A pretty pair they must have made to the young servant – eccentric old crone and her handsome, young visitor.  If Jane had had any thoughts, however, she kept them wisely to herself, quickly bowing and excusing herself from the musty sitting room.  As he listened to the old woman continue, his keen dark eyes caught glimpse after glimpse of Pratt's youth in the frames that lined the mantle.  _She was a beautiful woman in her day_, he decided with a vague feeling of pity.  The woman who sat with darning needles and a half-made orange quilt in her lap was nothing more than a caricature of Dr. Evelyn Pratt. 

"Mrs. Pratt," he interrupted, hands held up as an apology for any rudeness.  "I'm afraid I'm not here to question the purpose of the domes, or speculate on the cause of the amnesia, or even to guess at the nature of the Event.  I'm here to negotiate the return of the—"

"Book of Memoirs.  I know."  The vacant expression in her eyes dissipated as if nothing more than a finely cast illusion by smoke and mirrors, replaced by an intense glare that reflected stubborn brilliance. 

_Perhaps that was all this was_, he mused, regarding Pratt's motley appearance with more respect.  A guise of insanity, unredeemable eccentricity to mask a deeper truth.  _I have a feeling she's the kind to pick the 'hard way' of doing things_.  Roger took a moment to straighten his tie, a symbolic gesture of preparation that meant something to him alone.  "My client is prepared to compensate you for the inconvenience."

An unladylike snort and a dismissive flick of her wrist quickly made clear her opinion of that option.  "Inconvenience?" she intoned, her voice reaching a shrill pitch in her cynicism.  "Inconvenience, indeed!  The Memoirs is not an inconvenience.  It is a treasure!  A priceless artifact of the pre-Event era!  It contains information of a past no one remembers," she ranted, pausing a moment to grace the young man with a sideways glance.  A spark of mischief entered her blue gaze, and she turned to face him squarely.  "Aren't you curious as to what the book contains, Mister Negotiator?"

"If it contained knowledge of any worth, I'm sure you would have made good use of it by now, Mrs. Pratt," he replied with a slight frown of impatience.   

Pratt clucked her tongue, wagging a scolding finger.  "That's assuming that I would want the information for material gain.  I can tell you, Mr. Smith, that that is most certainly not the case.  My father used to say that no knowledge gained is ever wasted, and knowledge as rare as this is far more precious than even the greatest Megadeus." 

There was an unnerving, knowing look in her eyes as her gaze pierced through his aloof exterior, sending a wave of something between fear and anticipation through him.  He was as stubborn as she, however, and wasn't about to let an elderly woman in a pink terry robe intimidate him.  His expression was as cool as ever, confident smirk carefully crafted and placed with the precision of a master actor.  "The role of the temptress doesn't suit you, Mrs. Pratt," he remarked idly, the subtle snub making its mark with uncanny accuracy. 

The young Evelyn hidden beneath the years – the fearless, lovely young lady from the pictures – bristled at the insult.  She stood, her limbs losing their tremors, eyes flashing with the fire of female indignity.  For a second, Roger marveled at the fearsome lady that stood with her chin held high.  Now _this_ was the Evelyn Pratt he'd been expecting.  "Then by all means, let's put all pleasantries aside, Mister Smith.  Tell that dog Rosewater that he can rest easy – the book will never leave my possession, nor will word of it ever leave my lips.  It, however, stays with me.  It's mine and I won't give it up to anyone.  Not even him." 

"If you've already read it, then it can't possibly reveal any more secrets to you."  Roger smoothly transitioned from the role of antagonist to ally with little more than a silken change of tone, attempting to mollify the aged intellectual by appealing to her ego.  After all, a hostile woman was the last thing any negotiator wanted to deal with.  "You must have already learned everything the book has to teach you." 

            "That's the thing you young people don't understand," she said, her voice carrying a hint of weariness.  "The wiser we become, the more books reveal.  The learning is never complete.  Neither is the teaching, for that matter.  This book will always have more secrets to reveal, more lessons, more hidden meanings.  Every new discovery made in or between the words is unique to the eyes that read them."  She dropped back into the chair, as if exhausted by the outburst.  "Besides, it's the only thing I have left of them."

            "Who?" he asked, suddenly curious.

            "My family.  It was passed down to my husband, who gave it to me as a wedding gift.  I gave it to my daughter the day her son was born, intending that it might become a family heirloom, but she and the baby vanished from the hospital.  Robert and I searched every corner of the city for four years, until one Tuesday afternoon, when I had just about given up hope, I found her.  My baby girl – she was dead."  Pratt's voice was listless, as if tired of reliving the memory.  "We never found my grandson."

            "I'm sorry," murmured the negotiator, instantly solemn.  "When did it happen?"

            "Thirty years ago as of last week."

            The old woman stared down at the floor, one hand covering her heart, the other clenched around something in her robe's pocket.  She pulled out her fist, and he could see that held tightly within her gnarled fingers was a photograph, yellowed and tattered.  Mrs. Pratt numbly handed the precious picture to him.  It was a black-haired girl, probably no more than twenty years old, sitting up in a hospital bed with her newborn son in her arms.  Her eyes were dark and lively, lips spread into a wide, tired smile.  To her left, a middle-aged Evelyn Pratt stood proudly beside her daughter, while her husband Robert Pratt stood to the right.  The older gentleman wasn't even facing the camera; his eyes were for no one but his grandson, whom he seemed to regard with infinite affection and adoration.  _Lucky boy_, thought Roger with a nearly imperceptible tinge of jealousy.

            "Roger," Pratt suddenly called.  It was the first time she'd used his first name, and the use was not frivolous.  There was an urgency to her voice, a flare of desperate hope in her eyes.  "I've spent decades in the study of this single book.  I fell in love with it, gave my life to it.  It was the mystery of all mysteries, the key to the Event.  But I'm growing old, and as much as I love my books and my research, I find myself longing more for company that I can speak to, a legacy that is more than paper and print."

            "I understand."

            "Find my grandson, Roger.  Find out what happened to him, whether he's dead or alive.  I need to know before I die.  If you do this for me, I will give you the Memoirs."  She paused, a wry smile softening the grief in her face.  "It's ironic and fitting, poetic justice at its finest, that I should sacrifice the book to retrieve the family I gave up for its sake."           

"I'm a negotiator, Mrs. Pratt," Roger responded reluctantly.  "I'm sure the police or a private investigator would be more than happy to oblige."

            "Incompetent fools, the lot of them.  I see something in you that makes me believe that if anyone can do it, that person is you.  Give an old woman a little happiness before she dies."

            Roger rolled his eyes at the obvious guilt trip.  "I'd say you're nowhere near death's door, Mrs. Pratt.  But I do pride myself on completing my negotiations efficiently, so if this is what it takes to get the Memoirs in the most amicable way possible, then I suppose I have no choice."  He gave her a smug grin, deftly pulling out his sunglasses from his coat pocket.  He slid them on with practiced ease, taking a moment to smooth his hair.  "I'll begin tomorrow morning."

            "Thank you," the old woman breathed a sigh of relief, eyes rejuvenated by hope, watching the young man show himself to the door.  As he stepped out onto the steps, she called out happily. "Tomorrow morning then.  Pick me up at eight!"

            "What?!" Roger barked as the door slammed in his face.

            She laughed to herself, and threw off the scarf wrapped around her head.  Her hands clapped together in enthusiasm as she stopped by a mirror to smooth back her silver hair.  "So perhaps the pursuit of truth is not yet complete.  One last mystery, old girl," Evelyn murmured to herself as she walked to her bedroom with renewed determination.  "Jane!  Prepare my bag while I get out of this ridiculous outfit!"

**Author's Notes:**  Abandon all hope, ye that enter here.  This is the first line in the famous Italian piece, The Inferno from The Divine Comedy, by Dante Alighieri in which Dante himself travels, stanza by stanza, canto by canto, circle by circle, into the depths of Hell.  I thought this to be an especially fitting opening quote (irrelevant and mediocre as this piece of fiction may be), if only because Roger will soon discover himself spiraling into a hell of his own, where his questionable Virgilian counterpart may be as much a part of the torment as she is his guide through it.  I don't pretend to have based the plot on anything nearly as intricate as a medieval discourse on the nature of hell, purgatory, heaven, love or any other such esoteric thing.


End file.
